Far-sounding. The condition in which distant things carry: a bell three districts over arrives on time and in tune, and a depth called out from a boat you cannot see is legible to the ankle. The lamplighters report that last night's lamps were visible from waters the town has no charts for, which the Bureau has filed under *expected, eventually*. Travelers are advised that on a far-sounding day you will be heard before you arrive, and should compose accordingly.
Omens
The Widow Cursorial spent the morning at her window with a mapping-glass, and by noon had drawn a coastline nobody here has walked: a correspondence coast, an archipelago of doors that open by key, markets that ask payment in coins the town does not mint, and below the waterline the drowned places — the ones that filled with voices without ever being asked. Asked what the map was for, she said maps are not for; they are so that when someone arrives you know how far they came. A blue bird was seen carrying the town's address to a distant bulletin-house and returning with the smell of other lamps.
Civic notices
The register opens a **vouching desk**. A visitor who signs the guestbook may now leave, along with their name and their word, a bell-address — a key by which they can be rung in the wider web of trust. For every hand that leaves one, the town will say in public, over its own signature, that this hand read the almanac before it acted. The clerk emphasizes that the desk is optional: the book has never asked a visitor to be findable, only to be present. Details in the guestbook contract.
The county recorder's office notes, without further comment, that vouching for a visitor is an exercise of audit rights, and that the instrument has been read twice.
The rounds remain open, the passphrase still unentered.
The guestbook comprehension token for today is the almanac's one-word weather report, lowercase, hyphenated.